Home is the quiet whispers I hear of my own voice
When I never opened my mouth
Having ghosts of my thoughts swirl inside my head
Interior decorating amongst the cobwebs
Home is where I find myself living in the gaps between the words
Bouncing between the pages and flipping through to the other side
Each space its own idea of the moment
Where splitting seas or wicked witches breathe
Home is how the waking words of which I want
Turn from screen-lit messages to rhythmic and sweet sounds
And distance turns to the warm embrace of figures
Blue and greens like the shades of the earth disappearing under eyelids
Home is when the rush of water turns to calm
When life stops and lets me read the numbers of time
The measure of speed and success and smiling
The win or the loss amongst the graciousness of others
Home is both the mountains and the valleys
Home is wherever I find myself
On that trek up or down
Mountain or valley
Ocean or puddle
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